


Make This Beggar a King

by cats_mother (phoebesmum)



Series: Sports Night/Dollhouse crossover [1]
Category: Dollhouse, Sports Night
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/cats_mother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adelle DeWitt recruits a new Active.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make This Beggar a King

**Author's Note:**

> Written February 2009.

It's a beautiful evening: dry and cool, the bite of autumn in the breeze not yet turning to the chill of winter. The air's filled with the scents of life in the city, rich and varied, good and bad; the noise of the city surrounds him, strident yet comforting in its familiarity. Above him, competing with the streetlamps and refusing to accept defeat, stars twinkle defiant, eternal light.

He envies them their strength; wishes he could look to them for inspiration.

He tries to savour all these things, all the sights and sounds and sensations of the world he knows, to store it up, commit it all to memory. Pretty soon, he knows, barring some sort of miracle, memory will be all that he'll have left.

He's been walking for a while, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes, but now as he reaches the bridge he slows, stops, stands staring out over the river. It's as good a place as any to stop and consider his options.

It doesn't take long. They're few, and far from pleasant.

He leans forward, hands gripping the guardrail until the knuckles show white. _How_, he wonders, not for the first, maybe not for the thousandth time, _how did this thing happen to me? And how, how in god's name do I fix it?_

No matter how many times he asks the question, the answer remains the same: _I can't. I don't know how. I need someone to help me. Someone – anyone – please!_

But there is no-one. People he'd thought were his friends, people he'd thought he could depend upon to the very death – they've turned their backs on him, cut him out of their lives like a living cancer. His voicemail is silent, his inbox empty of anything but neverending spam, while his own messages languish forever unanswered. The only people still speaking to him are his lawyer and his shrink, and he doesn't kid himself that either of them are doing it for the love of him. Once the money runs out – and, jobless and unemployable as he is, it won't be long before that happens – they'll be gone, just like all the rest.

No, that's not true. They're not quite the only people still in his life. There are also the cops. He hasn't forgotten them, and they certainly haven't returned the favour. The cops are always only too ready and eager to talk to him. The trouble is, he has nothing to tell them. All he can say he has said over and over again – "It wasn't me; I didn't do it; I don't _know!_" – and they don't believe him. Nobody believes him. Not with the evidence; not with his history.

_(Don't they know me? Don't they know me at all? I've been clean ever since … ever since Sam … And don't they know I never touched anything much harder than pot, never even used it, sure as hell would never sell it? Don't they know?!) _

Even the press have given up on him. They've been camped outside his door for days, ever since the first sniff of the story broke, packs of them hungry and eager for blood, but this morning they were gone – off in search of a bigger story, fresh prey, he assumes. That leaves him forgotten, invisible, a nobody, a non-entity. He might as well be dead already.

If things go the way they look like going then, god, _dying_ won't be the worst that could happen to him.

And maybe that's what's brought him here, way across town to this place that, in its history, has seen the end of so many. Maybe his subconscious was telling him the answer to a question he hadn't even realised he'd asked.

He's in good shape. He's been trapped in his apartment almost 24/7 this past week, slowly going stir-crazy and trying any means he can to take his mind off the walls that seemed to be closing in on him. He'd unplugged the TV after the first glimpse of his own face on the headline news, and he'd been too jittery to read, but exercise, mindless and repetitive, had filled the hours and quieted his mind. It wouldn't take so very much effort to vault the rail. One step up, one push, and then …

Then it would all be over.

He takes that step.

*

He takes that step, and that's when she makes her move, slipping from the shadows and saying his name. He turns, startled, eyes wide and huge, hand to his heart. It's rather delicious and, much as she disapproves of these special commissions – they smack of common trafficking and are, in her, opinion, both dangerous and unnecessary – it's clear to her why this one was targeted.

Recovering, he manages a smile. "You're a little late to the party," he says.

She raises an eyebrow. "Party?"

"Aren't you Press?" He doesn't wait for a reply. "I thought you people had moved on. Seen all you had to see, done all you had to do, and gone to make some other poor bastard's life hell." When she says nothing, he smiles, a small, crooked smile. "Or are you freelancing? Hoping to get an exclusive?"

She can't help but be amused. That is, in fact, _exactly_ what she's hoping for. She says as much, and he shrugs.

"Honestly, there's not much of a story. I guess I was framed – pure and simple."

"Actually," she breaks in, "Neither pure nor particularly simple. Or so I would imagine."

It's pernickety, but it brings out that smile again, and another slight shrug – as though this were nothing, as though it didn't matter, as if he didn't care. She knows better. She knows he cares very much. Enough, perhaps, to be prepared to do anything, anything at all. "Good point," he admits. "But whatever – I don't know who, I don't know how and I don't even know why, and I sure as hell don't know how to prove it. Like I said, not much of a story there, not when the cops have a better one. And nobody – " He catches his breath. "_Nobody_ believes me." He looks away; she hears his quick breathing, and knows he's fighting down tears.

"That must hurt dreadfully," she says, meaning it. "And I can't think why they shouldn't." She's careful to keep her voice expressionless, but still he looks up. The sudden hope in his eyes would have broken her heart no more than a few years back, but she's older now, and more experienced; all she feels is a faint twinge of regret. "It seems simple enough to me. You work in sports. It's a multi-billion dollar business, which inevitably goes hand in hand with corruption. And you and your partner – "

"Casey," he says, a wistful note in his voice. Of course, _Casey_ had deserted him, right along with everybody else. She can only imagine how devastating that must have been. It's a memory that, if it were hers, she would _pay_ to have erased.

"Casey," she amends. "You two have never been too careful what you say, have you? You crossed a line somewhere – you embarrassed somebody, or got too close to something that was none of your business, or simply, to put it bluntly, pissed someone off – and this is how they've chosen to deal with it." She allows a small smile of her own. "If I'm right, you may even think yourself lucky."

"Lucky!"

She nods. "Lucky. Crowbars and baseball bats are more these people's style, if I understand correctly. You are, at least, still alive and intact."

His eyes flick back to the river. She hears his thought as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud: _for all the good that does me!_

"That's why I'm here," she tells him, bringing them finally to the point. "I want to help you, Daniel."

She likes to slip in their first names somewhere around this point in these interviews. It establishes a connection, helps her steal through their defences. She'll only use it once or twice at the most. God help her – god help them all if she ever starts thinking of the Actives as human beings.

He's turned back to face her. "How?" he demands. "How can you help me? Even if you were to write my side of the story, who's to say anyone would buy it?" He lets fly a small bark of not-quite laughter. "God, _I_ wouldn't believe me, not with all the evidence stacked up the way it is, and I _am_ me!"

"I never said I was Press," she reminds him. "That isn't what I had in mind. I'm here to offer you a proposition. A way out of this mess."

His face is sceptical, but he leans against the rail now, folding his arms, head slightly tilted. "I'm listening."

"A fresh start," she says softly, temptingly, dangling it before him like a gift. Like bait. "A new identity. A new life. Leave the past behind, and start over. _Tabula rasa_."

She's read all Dan's files, knows him inside and out, and she knows he's not stupid. Naïve, perhaps, too ready to trust, but never stupid. It's no surprise when he challenges her.

"In return for - ?" It _is_ a challenge, but the uncertainty in his voice tells her that he's not a lost cause – not yet. "I'm no expert at this sort of thing, but I don't imagine that new identities come cheap."

How right he is. "In return for whatever we ask from you," she tells him, softer than ever. "The organisation I work for provides services – personal services. Escorts, bodyguards, advisers, teachers," – _assassins, thugs, thieves, whores, spies_ – "sometimes just a friend – anything our clients ask for. Whatever it is, we can provide it all."

"You overestimate my skill set," he says, and now his voice is dry. "I'm a writer and a sports anchor. I don't imagine your clients have much of a demand for either of those."

This is where she has to be careful. "You would be whatever we needed you to be," she says simply. "Whatever we _programmed_ you to be."

He reacts to that as they all do, disbelieving, horrified, and she hastens to calm him before he turns and walks away as he seems about to do. She reaches out her hand in what's meant to be a gesture of reassurance, not quite touching his sleeve.

"Daniel, please trust me when I say it's quite safe and absolutely painless." If that's a lie then it's a small one, and he'll never know any different. "Our operatives' safety is our highest priority – for the term of their contract, and beyond. We take care of our people. We go to extraordinary lengths to ensure that they are not harmed in any way, either physically or mentally, by any of our procedures. I cannot stress this too highly."

She does touch him then, a gentle brush against the skin, and he snatches his hand back, shaking his head. He hates the idea, she can see. They all hate the idea. Every one of them. And every one of them, eventually, succumbs.

"Five years," she murmurs. "A five-year contract. The time would fly by, believe me. And at the end of it – a new, permanent identity of your own, a new beginning. You'd be wealthy, and you'd be free." Then she plays her hidden ace. "Which is more than you can say if you stayed here. I doubt a jury would be as lenient."

His hands are covering his face, his head still shaking, side to side, again and again. "I don't," he's whispering. "I _can't_ – "

"I believe you can," she tells him. "Many have. You wouldn't be alone." She reaches out once more, pulls his hands down, holds them securely in her own, looks up into his eyes. "Say 'yes', Daniel. Say 'yes'. You'll never regret it, I promise you that."

That may be the truest thing she's said tonight. Where there's no remembrance, there can be no regret.

His eyes search her face, but she knows he'll find nothing there; her own training was intensive and complete. There's a long, long moment when she's certain she's failed, when she thinks she'll have to call in reinforcements. They can't lose him. There's too much at stake to let him slip away. She tightens her grasp on his cold fingers.

"How well do you think you'd survive in prison, Daniel?"

He shudders all over; his head drops and his hands loose hers. He turns away, and whispers something. She steps up behind him and touches his arm.

"I didn't quite - ?"

He swings back to her. "I said yes, okay?" he tells her, harsh-voiced. "Yes. I'll do it, you got me. Whatever it takes, however long it takes. Just get me out of here. Just …" And then his voice cracks. "Just make sure no-one ever knows. Will you promise me that? Just let me … disappear. That's all I'm asking."

She nods. That was part of the plan, but let him think she's doing him a favour.

"Take off your coat," she tells him.

*

They ditch his car, leave his coat on the back seat, his wallet, his cell phone, all the minutiae of his life still in its pockets. She drives him out of town – he doesn't notice or care in which direction or how far – to a private airfield, where there's a plane waiting for them. Bored-looking men in suits nod them aboard, settle them into their seats, bring them drinks.

That's the last thing he remembers.

*

She watches him sleep on the plane and, once again, feels that troubling, unfamiliar twinge of pity, of regret. When his head slips down to rest against the bulkhead, she leaves her seat to ease him into a more comfortable position, slide a pillow under his cheek. Maybe her hands linger a little longer than is strictly necessary; maybe she permits herself to touch his hair, once, gently. Then she turns away, returns to her own seat, pulls out her laptop and, for the rest of the flight, absorbs herself in the endless demands of work. That, and nothing else.

*

He opens his eyes. His neck's a little cramped; he stretches it out until it's comfortable.

"Hello, Delta," says a voice, and he looks up. There's a man standing by his chair. He doesn't remember the man's name. It doesn't matter. He knows who _he_ is – Delta – and that is all he needs to know.

"Did I fall asleep?" he asks politely. The man nods.

"For a little while," he says.

"Should I go now?"

Another nod, and a smile. "If you like."

He slides to his feet, smiles back at the man – "Thank you," he says, although he's not sure for what – and walks away.

Into the Dollhouse. Back to his home.

He needs nothing, desires nothing, wants for nothing. This is freedom. This – is his life.

***


End file.
